(Adrian's POV)
The citadel was alive with whispers.
Candles burned low in their iron sconces, filling the grand hall with the scent of smoke and old wax. Crimson drapes hung from the vaulted ceiling, heavy as bloodstained shrouds, and every shadow seemed to lean closer, listening. My throne sat at the end of the chamber, carved from black marble veined with silver, a seat designed not for comfort but intimidation.
I sat like a blade sheathed in velvet, back straight, crown gleaming coldly in the flicker of firelight. Every movement, every breath, was measured.
And still the room buzzed with doubt.
Vampire nobles filled the chamber, jeweled collars and pale throats bared like offerings. Their eyes, crimson, amber, gold flicked toward me in nervous glances. The latest skirmish with the wolves had left their pride wounded. They wanted blood in return. My bloodthirsty people were patient with many things, but never with restraint.
I lifted the goblet from the arm of my throne, swirling the liquid lazily. The scent was rich, spiced with magic, stolen from a witch's veins three nights ago. But even as it brushed against my lips, I tasted something else.
Him.
The heat of Damien's breath. The press of his mouth, rough and claiming. The sting of his teeth when he had dared graze my throat.
The memory burned like a secret brand beneath my skin, and for the first time in centuries, I found myself… distracted.
"Your Majesty," came the sharp voice of Lord Cyras, one of the oldest nobles, and the most insufferable. He bowed, but the bend of his back was shallow. "We cannot allow the wolves' audacity to go unanswered. The people grow restless. They whisper. They fear weakness."
A murmur rippled through the hall. Yes. That word again, weakness.
I let the silence stretch until it strained, then rose slowly from the throne. The sound of my cloak sweeping across the marble floor hushed the room more effectively than a shout.
"Weakness?" My voice cut through the chamber like a blade of ice. "Is that what you call patience?"
I descended the steps with deliberate grace, each click of my boots echoing like a heartbeat. My gaze locked on Cyras until his head bowed lower. Good. He remembered his place.
"I have led you through centuries of blood and shadow," I continued, voice carrying easily, cold and unyielding. "While others fell, we endured. While kings died, I remained. Tell me, Cyras… does that sound like weakness to you?"
"No, Your Majesty," he muttered quickly, sweat beading along his pale brow.
The hall shifted, nobles averting their eyes, ashamed. They wanted vengeance. They always wanted vengeance. But they would wait, because I commanded it.
I returned to my throne, the echo of power humming in the air. And yet, behind my mask, I was smiling.
Because I knew one man who would never bow his head to me.
Damien.
The wolf king had looked into my eyes and dared me to break. And gods help me, part of me wanted to.
I set the goblet down with deliberate care, curling one finger along its rim. A whisper of sound, innocent to the hall, but calculated. I could almost imagine him hearing it, his wolf ears catching what others missed.
A challenge. A taunt.
Come find me.
Lucien, ever the shadow at my side, stepped closer. "Your Majesty, the council grows uneasy. If we do not strike back soon, their loyalty may fracture."
I turned my head, meeting his gaze. Loyal though he was, he was also observant, too much so. I needed to remind him where his curiosity ended.
"Do you think me careless, Lucien?" My voice dropped to a dangerous purr. "That I do not see the web the council weaves? That I do not smell their ambition rotting beneath their obedience?"
Lucien stiffened. "Never, my king. I only—"
"Enough." I rose again, this time moving past him, trailing my fingers along the cold stone of the wall as I walked toward the balcony. The doors opened to the night, and the moon's pale face stared down at me.
The forest stretched beyond, vast and black, and somewhere within it, I knew he prowled.
Damien.
My lips curved faintly. He was restless. I could feel it. Wolves were predictable in that way, they could never hide hunger. And his hunger was for me.
So I would let him starve.
I would give him glimpses just enough to keep his obsession raw and gnawing but never the feast.
Let him chase. Let him burn. Let him believe he was the hunter.
But he would never catch me.
Because I was already inside his head, a phantom lover he could not purge.
The night air kissed my face, cool and sharp. I spread my arms slightly, as if to embrace the dark, and whispered into the wind, too softly for Lucien or anyone else to hear.
"Run to me, Damien. Break yourself on me. And when you're on your knees, I'll decide whether to save you… or ruin you."
A howl answered in the distance, long and low. The corners of my mouth tilted upward.
Game on.